Happily Ever After
by aeliuned
Summary: When Nancy comes back. "Let me put it this way: going with a guy just because you have the same shoe size as his ex-girlfriend isn't smart. Fairy tales don't apply to all of us." T for language and sexual undercurrents-references.
1. Chapter 1

_I didn't like how Nancy and Edward were conveniently "taken care of" at the end, especially Nancy. This should to some degree remedy that. r/r_**

* * *

Nancy POV**

A year has passed since I last saw New York. I can still see Times Square in my mind's eye, the bustling of cars and the tumult of people on the sidewalks, the streets, the subways. I can still see the torrent of rain, the piano, the microphone, the elevator, the small band, the wooden floor. I can still see the clock, the dragon, the sparkle of death, the shoe. I can still see the broken look in her gaze, the stiffness of his arms and chest, the not-smile on his face.

I still see the way he kissed her, held her as they danced, how gently and lovingly he had touched her face, the serenity and intensity in his eyes when he looked at her.

He had sung in her ear, held her like she was what he lived for, had taken her in selflessly, had protected her like a perfect prince charming when Narissa the dragon threatened her life. Romance and chivalry to its fullest.

Honestly, it was absolutely ridiculous. I'd known him for _five whole years_ and he left me for a _girl_, not even a woman, whom he had known for a few _days_, screw how attractive she may have been. When I followed that pretty boy, Edward, into Andalasia—and I have no idea what that girl saw in him before she met Robert, past that chivalrous romantic facade—it was with the thought: "what have I got to lose?"

Everything.

* * *

I stare down the well for the millionth time. It'd be easy to just plummet down that hole and go back to New York. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to get back my job after disappearing for a year, but at least I'd know what to do if I did go back. I wouldn't fall over some guy that took me in by chance.

_By chance._ Really. Of _all_ the people who saw her first, it had to be Robert. Pretty much any other guy in New York would've taken advantage of her idiocy and naïveté. She had popped out of a fairy tale—what else could Andalasia be?—and had wrapped New York into that fairy tale. How else would she have met my boyfriend of five years, and how else would he have fallen for her so quickly (And what about that dragon…)? I know the spark in our relationship had pretty much died out, but to this extent? I could've sworn he was getting ready to propose to me. Why else would he want me to spend more time with Morgan? I shouldn't have overreacted to that Giselle-only-in-towel-on-top-of-Robert incident. That would've changed a few things. Or maybe I should have refused to go to that ball—he had seemed a bit reluctant about it anyway.

God. All this irony, all these flukes, all these—Ugh!

Hm. Speaking of the spark going out of a relationship, Edward and mine ended about a week after our wedding. He didn't _quite_ seem to understand what consummation was—a facet of fairy tales strikes again! I would've thought that fairy tales would have great sex rather than none, or maybe he was just an exception—after all, he never spent much time with girls, as his stupid mother didn't allow them to go near him. What kind of luck is that? If I didn't know any better I would say I was born under an unlucky star.

The darkness begins to look more and more appealing by the minute. I still keep track of our little anniversaries: it would've been six years, eight months, four days today. Only a year and a day ago, he left me for Giselle. Tomorrow would be another day to add to that. 363 after that will be two years.

A year of an unsuccessful relationship can't really compare with five years with someone I really thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

I could've sworn he _really _loved me.

Did I just think that? What have I become, to believe in true love?

The answer comes to me right before I close my eyes and fall.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I kind of suck at writing Robert/Giselle/Morgan. Sorry..._

* * *

**Robert POV**

"Robert?"

I turn around and see her with her head cocked to the side, her eyes wide, epitomizing innocence, a gown in each hand. I can't help but smile at her—I'm still in love with her, and she has barely changed in the past year.

"Hm?"

"What looks better: blue or pink?"

She holds up one dress and then the other. I could easily see her in either one, and both were in her style—a little gauze, a bit of lace, a ribbon or two. It didn't matter, really; she'd be beautiful in either one.

"Uh—blue." I answer.

"Hm…" she purses her lips and surveys the two gowns. I want to kiss her then and there. "You're right." She smiles brightly at me. "A little variety always helps."

I smile back at her.

* * *

"Daddy, when are you going to propose to her?"

"Soon, honey."

"You've said that for the last five months," she frets.

I riffle through the papers on my desk, and pick up my mug from a pile of them.

"That's because 'soon' isn't in a day," I tell her, and take a mouthful of coffee.

There is a small pause before she goes on,

"Someone told me that only married people and irresponsible people sleep in the same bed."

I almost choke, but manage to swallow before coughing.

"Who told you that?" I demand.

"My teacher," she answers stoutly. Another pause. "Does that mean you and Giselle are irresponsible?"

"Morgan…" I hesitate. I vaguely consider giving her the sex talk now, but instantly think again. Bright and abnormally mature though she is, she isn't ready to know about that.

"What?" she asks eagerly. She's grown to recognize when I'm on the fence about revealing things to her, and this is probably the most uncomfortable she's ever seen me. I can practically see the gears clicking in her brain. "Does it have anything to do with boys being after only one thing?"

She's too curious for her own good, and if I don't give her the right idea she'll get a garbled one from unreliable sources. God, I didn't expect to have to deal with anything even vaguely related to sex until she was thirteen!

"Honey, Giselle and I sleep in the same bed because we don't have the room for another bed and it's not polite to make her sleep on the couch like she used to." I give her a stern look. "We're not irresponsible."

"Then why doesn't she sleep in my bed?" she asks. "It'd be like a sleepover!"

"That's because your bed isn't as big as ours," I reply. She opens her mouth but I quickly interrupt her. "Morgan, why don't you help Giselle? She asked me a question about dresses earlier and I'm sure you'd be much more helpful than me."

"You got that one right," she says dryly, and leaves.

I slump back in my chair, relieved that I had been able to avoid the dreaded Talk, and that I hadn't had to lie. This was one of the occasional instances when I was fervently grateful I had retained the self-imposed celibacy. But six years is a pretty long span of time, and whereas I was deliriously guilty about being physically attracted to Giselle before, I am less scrupulous about it now—not to mention that we live in the same house. It's impossible to hold back less-than-innocent thoughts when we're both in bed and she's in my arms, or the times she comes out of the shower with only a nearly scandalously small towel covering her, or when…

I shake my head and get ready to go to work.

* * *

I collapse on my bed, exhausted. A long day at work, a hasty dinner at a fast-food restaurant and having to have dealt with Morgan's curiosity was just too much for me. I close my eyes and start organizing the events of the day in my head.

My thoughts are interrupted by Giselle, who had apparently only just finished taking a shower. Yet again, she is unaware of how uncomfortable it makes me to see her clad only in a towel.

"Good evening, Robert," she greets me cheerfully. "How was your day?"

"It was fine," I mutter, looking away as she begins rummaging for clothes. I close my eyes and do my best to dwell on how shoddy today had been rather than how much I want her.

The bed creaks slightly as Giselle climbs onto it. She snuggles against me and I prop up on my elbows a few seconds after she kisses me. It lingers for far too long and her hand plays with the hair on my chest. Her fascination with it never fully faded, and I had found it endearing—but now, it was doing nothing but making the situation worse. I feign losing my balance and collapse back onto the bed; she giggles. I glance over at her and immediately regret it.

Having had my eyes close the whole time, I had not noticed that she had still not gotten dressed and had nothing but a towel wrapped around her. Now I couldn't stop staring, as if I was some callow, horny high school boy.

"Why are you staring at me?" she asks uneasily.

"I uh," I fumble to find words. "Uh, Giselle—how about you get dressed, yeah? You're gonna catch a cold."

"But it's May," she points out. "It's too warm for that."

"Just—please get dressed?"

She obliges, though I can't miss the puzzlement in her eyes as she does so. I'm just glad that she didn't ask questions about why I didn't want her to walk around in nothing but a towel.


End file.
